


Snow Bunny

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Skiing, contains far more technical details than anyone asked for or wanted, it's theoretically gen but i'm trash so it's sorta pre-shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max really isn't sure how he's gotten himself roped into going, of all things, skiing. He was raised in the outback, for fuck's sake- he'd never even seen snow in person before, much less tried sliding down a mountain on it. Or at least he hadn't, before he'd transferred all the way across the country to Victoria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Bunny

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Carpooling" fest! This was supposed to be really short but then I realized that I probably won't be able to ski this year myself and I kind of got excited about how disgruntled & confused Max would be and it sort of ran away from me so uh, whoops?
> 
> Head's up: there's a teeny bit of implied workplace harassment at the end because Joe & Sons exist. Further implies but does not turn into a police procedural because this was a "write what you _know_ " challenge and not "write what you remember from too many Law & Order marathons"

Max really isn't sure how he's gotten himself roped into going, of all things, skiing. He was raised in the outback, for fuck's sake- he'd never even seen snow in person before, much less tried sliding down a mountain on it. Or at least he hadn't, before he'd transferred all the way across the country to Victoria.

But it was a farewell and welcoming present in one from his old precinct and new, all paid for including a lesson he would sorely need, and after he'd asked his physical therapist and gotten the okay he'd figured: what the hell, why not. He was living down here now after all, where it snowed in the mountains come winter, and from the way people have talked about it in the short span he's been settling in, he's picked up on it being a favorite local sport.

There's more snow on the ground as he drives up the winding road to the mountainside than Max has ever seen before in his life, glittery and white and blinding even where it was dingy with salt and dirt. It was also shockingly cold, as he was warned about, his breath steaming the air and making his nose run. At least he'd been able to borrow a warm waterproofed jacket and gloves, because he doesn't have high hopes for how well his jeans are going to hold up to the chill.

Everything was done online for him already, apparently. Max only had to sign in and get his pass, bungle his way through renting a set of skis, and then he would be ready to start hopefully-not-falling down the side of a mountain.

Once he manages to find his way to the service counter in the first place (the trail map he made sure to familiarize himself with did not extend to the insides of the lodge, apparently) getting the pass is easy, though he's mildly surprised to find that it's a bit of plastic, like a credit card.

“It's RFID,” the bored girl behind the counter says, sensing his confusion, “Just keep it in your pocket and the scanners will pick it up to let you through the gates. Don't wave it around, you'll probably drop it and we don't refund lost passes.”

Max nods, and is suddenly grateful that the winter jacket has zippers over the pockets. “Um. Where're rentals?” he asks, because the main building had incredibly unhelpful signs and it had already taken him five minutes of wandering in confusion just to find this counter.

“Out that door,” the worker says, gesturing towards a door he'd assumed was employee's only for how it was plain wood, “Down the hall to your left, it's the big smelly room with the sign above the door. Can't miss it.”

“Thanks,” Max says in reply, trying not to think about why it would be smelly. People wore socks with their boots, right? And they were cleaned in-between, surely, just like shoes at a bowling alley.

He finds the sign marked “RENTALS REPAIRS AND TUNEUPS” with only slightly more difficulty than the girl implied he would. The room does indeed have a rather strong smell when he pushes through the doors, like a mixture of wet wool and many pairs of feet. One side of the room is lined with low wooden benches, half-filled with people tugging at bits of equipment, the other side taken up by a single long counter behind which Max can see racks and racks of equipment of all types.

“RENTALS START HERE” a sign proclaims, and he dutifully steps up to the sticker-plastered counter. The kid behind it is gangly and tall and pale, and Max wonders if his shaved head gets colder than one with hair on it. Put it under a hat and it probably wouldn't matter much, maybe.

“Filled out your form yet?” the kid asks with a smile.

Max shakes his head- there were forms involved? He though he'd give them his shoe size and be on his way.

“Here you go,” the kid says, passing over a carbon-copy form with an alarming amount of small print filling the space. “Leave the shaded section blank, that's for us in the shop.”

Max takes the form and the least-chewed-on-looking pen from the cluster on the counter and sits down on one of the low benches to look it over and fill it out. The top half of the form's asking his information- name, address, height, weight, skiing ability- while the second half is all an explanation of risk and waiver of liability. Odd that he hadn't had to sign anything like this when getting his entrance pass, he thinks.

Thankfully it's quick work to get everything filled out and signed, and he steps back up to the counter before anyone else even enters the room.

“Cool,” the kid says when he reads it over. “First time, eh? I'll get a couple of boot options for you, go take a seat on the bench.”

The kid disappears into one of the stacks of equipment before Max even has a chance to answer. He retakes his seat, wonders if he should take off his shoes now or if there was some reason not to. Some reason other than the fact that the carpeting looks terrible, wet and grimy with people tracking snow and mud and salt across it.

The kid returns with what looks like two- no, three- different pairs of boots juggled in his arms. “My name's Nux, by the way,” he says as he dumps them into a pile at Max's feet, crouching without concern for the dirty floor under his knees.

Max doesn't offer his in reply- it was on his form, anyway- but he nods in acknowledgment.

“Okay, shoes off,” the kid- Nux says, pulling out a matching pair of blue boots and setting them upright by Max's feet. “Ski boots are hard to get used to, so don't freak out- they're supposed to be tight when you wear them.”

Max tries sliding the boot on like a normal shoe, but they're tall and there's a lot of padding, and his foot jams partway down, awkwardly bent and squeezed.

“Get your weight on it,” Nux encourages, and with a bit of shoving and grunting and feeling incredibly awkward Max finally gets his foot all the way into the boot. The second foot is a repeat of the first, and once they're on the boots are almost excruciatingly tight. Even before Nux does up any of the clamps along the side it feels like his feet are being squeezed in a vise, something sharp and plastic digging into his ankles and just above his toes.

“Stand up,” the kid says, “One foot at a time try standing on your toes, then back on your heel. You want to settle your foot into the boot really well before doing up the buckles.”

Max tries, but his feet don't seem to move at all, only get more squished. It's actually a bit painful, having pressure crimped down along the length of his feet like this.

“Not working?” Nux asks, and Max shakes his head. “Those are pretty narrow, so get 'em off and try these, next.”

Taking the boots off is almost as hard as sliding into them in the first place, especially since he can't just use one foot to free the other like he's used to with shoes. Eventually Nux has mercy on him and holds the boot in place while Max yanks his foot out, and since he's at least making an attempt not to laugh Max doesn't scowl. Much.

The second pair feel much better- he catches his toes curled under his foot and has to pull out before resettling, which is annoying, but they feel more like actual shoes he's worn. When he stands to stamp his feet down into them though, Nux narrows his eyes and shakes his head.

“Too loose,” he declares, “Get 'em off.”

They didn't feel loose to Max, and he debates arguing, but it wasn't as if he's the one who works at an equipment place.

“If they're too loose,” the kid says as he helps Max get the boots back off- 'loose' or not, he still can't get them off on his own, “then your foot slides, and if your foot slides then you get pressure on the wrong part of your leg, and snap! There goes your shin.” He sounds rather gleeful as he says this, which is mildly alarming.

“Mate of mine got fucked up boots when we were kids- they were _so old_ , and the skis were ancient too, it was awesome- and when he took a bad tumble you could see the bone sticking all the way through his snowpants!”

Max really isn't sure why he's being told this story, and rather nervously wonders if it's better to risk a broken leg or squeezing his feet to death.

The next set of boots are somewhere in the middle- a tight unrelenting pressure, but not painful as the first set had been. Nux nods thoughtfully and tells him to walk a few paces, which seems ridiculous, but he complies. Walking with the heavy plastic boots on is an experience, and he suddenly understands why the people he'd passed were walking with a weird heel-to-toe rhythm- unless he wants to clunk around completely flat-footed, it was the only way to navigate the stiff supporting plastic. There was absolutely no flex to the body of the boot; the way they were made, he couldn't put the ball of his foot down first even if he really wanted to.

“Looks good!” Nux says, and waves him back to the bench. “Now, never ever undo your bindings on the trail. You can loosen them when you take a break in the lodge, but never get onto skis with loose bindings. You know why?”

Max can hazard a guess. “Broken legs?” he says.

“Exactly! Not worth the risk. If you fall and skid the buckles might flip up- just smack 'em back down. Only loosen them if you really honestly think you're losing circulation, and then come back here if that happens.” Nux seems happy to babble about the dangers of improperly fitted ski boots and how bad a trapped fold in denim can fuck up one's circulation as he tightens up the buckles, until Max is pretty sure he's never going to be able to get out of the boots again.

“Pair EJ-3.26,” the kid mutters to himself, collecting the discarded boots back into his arms. “Are you getting right on the slopes? If not, you can loosen 'em. But that's how tight you want those boots to be.”

Max checks the clock on the wall when Nux disappears to the back- his lesson starts in a little under an hour, and he'd been told to be there early. Reluctantly, he leaves the boots buckled up tight and shoves his discarded shoes into the backpack he'd been advised to wear over his jacket. He could _supposedly_ just leave his stuff at the base lodge without even renting a locker and it theoretically wouldn't get stolen, but he certainly wasn't willing to risk it.

There doesn't seem to be any wiggle room for which skis he's given- Nux only emerges with a single pair, along with a solitary boot. He lays them out across the counter and does something fiddly with a screwdriver while Max watches, despairing to think that those long pieces of- wood? plastic? he's not really sure what skis are made of, actually- are going to be attached to his feet for a good portion of the day.

“Slip your toes in the front, put your weight on your heel, and you'll hear a click,” the kid narrates, grabbing the boot and setting it into the binding bracket. There's a little lever at the back half, and when he leans his weight onto the boot it snaps loudly, a thick plastic piece swiveling to jut up from the back of the binding, behind the boot's heel.

“And you're set!” Nux wiggles the boot to demonstrate how it's now firmly attached to the ski.

“Step on, or use your pole or just press down, on this part-” he puts his palm on the plastic bit that had popped up and presses down- “and the binding will release again.” He lifts the now-free boot smoothly away and puts it to the other ski, repeating the fiddling and the snapping into place.

“Are you getting a helmet?” Nux asks once he's done, hefting the skis upright and somehow sliding them together binding-side-out so that they stick to one another before passing them off to Max to hold.

“Nn,” he mumbles in distracted reply with a shake of his head, confused as to why there are little interlocked plastic feet sticking out of the bottom of the skis but unwilling to ask about it. To stop him from skidding backwards? Maybe they fold up when there's weight on them?

“You should,” Nux says, “Otherwise you could crack your head against a tree.”

The thought of wearing boots that had been used by countless people before is already unsettling enough- Max assumes that the helmets are cleaned and deloused and all, but he really doesn't want someone else's old head sweat to get on himself. It wasn't like he thought he'd be going particularly fast, anyway. He could probably avoid any trees.

“Alright,” the kid says with an exaggerated shrug, “Suit yourself. Poles are over here, come on.”

There's a big rack of color-coded metal ski poles, and Nux takes a pair, flips them upside down, and has Max grab the short metal spike below the plastic basket instead of the actual handle on the other end.

“Too tall,” he says and shakes his head, swapping it for another set that Max can find absolutely no difference in. The kid seems satisfied though, and passes the poles to Max to hold, a feat he realizes is rather difficult with his hands already holding the skis. He's definitely going to end up smacking someone across the head with them on accident, he thinks sourly.

“Make sure you keep the wrist-straps _on_ when you're on the trail, but take 'em off when you're on the chair, and hold the poles in your hand instead,” he instructs. “Losing 'em isn't a huge deal, but we ding you twenty bucks if you can't get them back by closing.”

Max nods in mild bewilderment, wondering why you couldn't just leave them on, and not risk dropping them to begin with.

Nux leads him to the last counter, to pay, and Max tries not to flinch at the price. All that for a single day's rental seemed exorbitant, and he wonders if it's because buying costs so much more or if it's a captive audience type deal. He'd known that skiing was a rich person's sport, but he hadn't realized just _how much_ , and shudders to think about how much his trip was setting the guys back.

Then he's directed out the big glass doors to the snowy outside, where he's almost immediately blinded by the glare of sunlight. Sunglasses- that's what he'd forgotten. Max squints, hoping his eyes will adjust at some point, and looks for the line of the “Pipeline Quad” chairlift that will supposedly take him up to where the lesson starts.

There's a lot of people swarming around that he narrowly avoids hitting with his skis as he plods across the snow, chatting with one another and gliding down off the mountain effortlessly, throwing up snow when they swerve to a stop, and it's louder than he expected. Probably there's less chatting while actually on the slopes, or so he hopes.

He finds the lift after a moment and trudges towards it lugging his gear, unwilling to struggle up the incline of the hill with the skis attached. There were plenty of people around him doing the same, only stepping into their skis or snowboards when practically in line, so he doesn't feel that he sticks out like a complete sore thumb.

When he reaches near enough the start of the line Max grapples with the stuck-together skis for a long moment before getting them to slide apart, but thankfully getting his boots to click into place turns out to be pretty easy. And if he almost falls over trying to grab his fallen poles- well, almost doesn't count.

Immediately he tries to lift his foot to take a step, like he's done pretty much since he learned to walk, but realizes that the long ski attached to his boot makes that pretty much an impossibility. Instead he glances around to see what everyone else is doing and shuffles forwards, tentatively. It gets him a little bit of distance, like walking on ice, and he aims for the start of the line. He sees someone using their poles to push and he tries it, only to almost immediately run into someone already in line when he unexpectedly slides more than he anticipated.

“Watch it,” the woman he'd run into says, thankfully not losing her feet from under her and therefore causing himself to fall.

“Sorry,” Max says, trying to figure out if there's a way to move backwards. There has to be, surely, but with the slight slope trying to shuffle back only causes him to slide right back into the person again.

“Hey!” she says, “Knock it off! And get off my board, jackass, I can't move.”

“Sorry,” Max says a little desperately, “Sorry.” If he leans on the poles, maybe, he can sort of haul enough of his weight off to at least let the woman get her snowboard out from under his skis. He tries and it works, and she's got goggles covering her face but he's betting she's giving him a glare when she turns around.

“Whatever,” she says dismissively, and step-slides away down the line.

Max contemplates moving to another section of the line- there were a few cordoned off with shiny orange rope- but this was the one that had said "Solo Riders" and there's already someone else queued behind him, now. If he leans his weight on the ski poles like crutches he can use them to sort-of-brake, he discovers, and manages to leave a wide berth between him and the snowboarder while he shuffles awkwardly forward to the loading gate as the line moves.

There's an attendant with the resort's logo stamped across his jacket standing in an open area between the head of the lines and the loading gate, directing groups of people from one line or another so that they're grouped into fours. Max waits anxiously for his turn to be called, wondering suddenly what happens if he can't manage to get on the lift- or off.

“Single rider!” the attendant calls, waving at Max, and he tries to shuffle his way into the right area.

Unfortunately he's rather slow, and trying to speed up only makes him pitch forward like he's about to fall. The three people he was supposed to be grouped with quickly get impatient, opening the electronic gate as a chair approaches and leaving him behind to continue floundering towards the gate with grim determination.

“Please tell me you're trying to get over to start a lesson,” a woman's voice says, and Max rather precariously twists himself to see a person standing at the head of the otherwise-empty “Ski School Only” line just to the side of the loading gate, wearing a resort-branded jacket like the attendant.

He grunts, face flushed with embarrassment, and nods his head.

“Thank god,” the woman says, slotting herself into the gate next to him as easily as if she wasn't strapped into a set of skis. “Hey Ace, slow the chair!” she calls out to whoever was controlling the lift, and the whole chairlift obediently slows to a crawl, the people who'd just gotten on turning around in their seats to see what the commotion was.

“Use your poles to shove yourself forward,” she says once the gate springs open, beeping happily as it registers the card in his pocket. Max complies, because he needs to get onto the chairlift anyway and she seems to know what to do, shuffling and pushing himself until the tips of his skis are lined up with the half-buried red plastic line that he assumes means 'stop here'.

“Get your toes on the line,” the woman says, gliding a little further past him, “and try to move closer to the middle.” The back of her jacket reads “INSTRUCTOR” in bold red type, bright against the black material, and so Max figures he can probably trust her.

Changing position is easier said that done, and even slowed down the approaching chair seems ominous as it gets closer and closer.

“Give me your poles,” the woman says once he's situated, holding out a hand. Max looks at her askance, alarmed, but supposes that it would be ridiculous for an employee to steal rental equipment. He passes them over with some reluctance, feeling suddenly far more unbalanced even though he's just standing still.

“When the chair gets here, let it tap the backs of your legs and then just sit down. It'll scoop you right up,” she says, and glances over her shoulder to check the chair's progress. Max likewise twists around and watches it approach, so slowly that it's almost worse than if it was moving at the speed it had been for the other groups.

The thick rubbery padding makes contact with his legs and he obediently drops down, scooting more securely backwards as the chair continues crawling forward.

As soon as they clear the loading area the chairlift speeds back up and the ground drops away, and Max grabs the slats at the back of the chair, the awkward, heavy weight of his skis pulling down his legs making him feel as if he's going to pitch forward and slide right off onto the snow below.

“Bar's coming down,” the woman says nonsensically, but a moment later a metal bar does indeed drop down in front of him, clanging on the raised arm-rest off to the side so it's resting somewhere around the level of his navel. Max looks and realizes that it must have swiveled down from the thick metal arm that's clamped onto the thin wire of the lift pulley overhead. Neat trick, and something he certainly appreciates.

“So,” the woman says, shifting so she's facing him, tinted goggles pushed up high on the lip of her helmet to expose her face, and despite the reassurance of what amounts to a seat-belt Max only turns his head towards her in return, not wanting to chance somehow slipping off and dying. The ground below doesn't look particularly far, but they had only just cleared the loading area- up ahead he can see the towers get taller, the chairs dangling higher. “Are you Max? Private beginner's lesson at ten?”

Max nods a little miserably.

“Thought that might be the case,” she says. “I'm Furiosa, the instructor you're booked with.”

She doesn't extend a hand to shake, which probably makes sense because gloves, and also because he's somehow found himself holding onto the metal bar in front of him rather tightly. He's not afraid of heights (he's _not_ , he just prefers having his feet on the ground as any sensible person would), but the weight of the skis and the way they dangle and sway, especially added to how the wind rocks the chair is... disquieting.

“It's ridiculous that they won't start lessons down at the main lodge, sorry. At least this way you won't get scared of getting off and end up riding the lift back down.”

He isn't sure whether she's joking or not. Max pictures himself trying and failing to get off the lift in time, the machinery sweeping him past the drop-off area, clinging to the seat as it continues around the rotary spindle and heads back down the mountain... Reluctantly, he admits to himself that it actually seems like a real possibility.

“Might as well get started a little early, since we're already here,” Furiosa says. “First up: you're not getting these poles back until you earn them, which probably won't happen in one lesson.”

Max makes an alarmed noise. Weren't poles rather important to the whole skiing thing? He's certainly never seen anyone without them, anyway, and they were the only reason he hasn't yet unbalanced and fallen over completely in his (admittedly very short) time of standing on his skis.

“You'll be fine,” she says reassuringly, “Having poles without knowing what to do with them only teaches you bad habits.”

Not that he's really planning on continuing to ski past today, but alright, he can understand the reasoning. And surely a paid instructor wouldn't be _actively_ setting him up to fail.

“Getting off the lift is trickier than getting on,” Furiosa says. “I'll have them slow it again, but you might slip and fall once you touch down. It's not a big deal if you do- if we have to, we can stop the lift completely so you have time to get out of the way.”

Max hadn't thought about it before, but he suddenly has a vision of himself being trampled by a stream of skiers and snowboarders while he lies helplessly in the snow. Of course, there's also the thought of whatever random people are in the chair behind him being paused in place while he flounders about, watching and probably judging.

This whole trip might have been a bit of a mistake, he thinks.

“When we get close, I'll put the safety bar up. Shuffle to the edge of the chair and keep the tips of your skis pointed upwards, but don't stretch out your legs or anything. When I say 'go,' use your hands to stand up and push off the seat of the chair. Once you're standing your skis will start sliding- don't panic, just let them carry you forward.”

It seems pretty straight forward, but Max remains apprehensive. And his physical therapist had said that the brace would keep his knee from getting hurt further, but he's not sure that extends to falling and flailing about with long metal (? fiberglass? what _are_ skis made out of, it's going to bother him now) slats attached to his feet.

“So what made you decide to try skiing?” Furiosa asks conversationally after a moment. Max glances nervously up the line of dangling chairs, but can't even see the end of the lift as they hum their way up the mountain.

Generally he hates small-talk, but he's supposed to be spending the next two hours with this woman, so he probably shouldn't alienate her. And it's not like he can ignore her gracefully anyway, seeing as they're trapped together on a moving chair hanging high above snowy trees and rather painful-looking rocks.

Max clears his throat, annoyed with how the cold seems to be making everything inside his head drip. “Ticket and the lesson were a present," he says with a shrug.

"So you probably don't have any specific goals then, huh?"

He resists the urge to shrug again. "Not fall?" he says.

Furiosa chuckles a bit, "If you're not falling, you're not learning." It's not really an encouraging thing to hear, Max thinks. "But I'll see what I can do."

More quickly than he's prepared for, the end of the chairlift approaches. Furiosa quickly gives a run down of the procedure again- tips up and push off when she gives the signal- and the lap bar gets lifted back over their heads as the last tower passes them. There's a net underneath them before the mound of snow that they're aiming for, which only further serves to make him picture slipping off the chair.

Furiosa waves at the control booth and the lift lurches to a crawl just after the group in front of them slides off, the three of them making it seem effortless. Max scoots to the edge of the seat, hands gripping the padding as he waits for the signal to shove off.

His skis hit the snow, sliding around without any weight to hold them steady as the chair slowly moves forward. Ahead of him is a steep little hill, carved into a curve where people've turned rather than go straight, more than a few of said people standing or sitting around in clusters. He's so busy watching the terrain he almost misses Furiosa giving him the cue to go.

Max stands up and shoves off the chair, instantly alarmed by how his skis seem to be carrying him off without any further input from himself, and finds himself falling onto his ass almost immediately, momentum still carrying him a bit of a ways down the little slope.

“Not terrible,” Furiosa says, standing easily next to him despite the angle of the snow, “Can you get up? You're almost clear.”

Max grunts, struggling to rearrange his limbs. A metal pole is suddenly shoved near his face. “Grab it,” Furiosa instructs, “Pull yourself up.”

He does as she says, finds himself back on his feet (well, on his skis) and finishes sliding off the unloading area before the next chair arrives to run him over. Not a complete disaster, he thinks, even though the seat of his jeans is now covered in snow.

“Move over this way,” Furiosa says, taking her pole back and gesturing to an area clear of people, by a rather large yellow and black sign screaming "SKI SCHOOL!" Max follows, trying to match the more graceful gliding movements she's making and not succeeding much at all. It'd be easier if he could use the poles, he thinks, but realizes that Furiosa's not using any, either.

“What you're going to worry about first is balance,” she says once he's caught up with her. There's a wide-open swathe of snow ahead of them, marked by a cheery green sign declaring it to be “The Hop”

Max hums, it makes sense. He feels stable enough now that he's just standing still, but the only time he moved without actively shuffling he fell right over.

“The advantage of starting as an adult is you already know how to move your body. Kids? Not so much,” she adds. “You've got pretty good instincts, actually.”

He glances down at himself- even just now he's rather awkwardly splayed at the knees in a crouch over the skis, nothing at all like how the instructor is standing, nor really like anyone else he can see. The kids, maybe, Max thinks with a touch of despair as he realizes that the slope they're in front of is swarming with knee-high figures darting about, looking as wobbly and unsteady as he feels.

“When you're moving, try and bend your knees a little, and keep your shoulders over your feet,” Furiosa says, demonstrating. “Your feet shouldn't be more than shoulder-width apart, but if you get them too close you might run one ski over the other, which is a disaster.”

Max nods, and since the ground is pretty level he shuffles a bit, so that his skis are a little closer together and he's not quite so crouched. He fights the urge to stick his hands out to the side for balance, but it's a near thing.

“What about stopping?” he asks, because just from getting off the chairlift he thinks maybe _going_ is not going to be the hard part.

“This run's so flat the friction will stop you,” Furiosa replies. “Ready to give it a shot?”

Max looks down the pokey little slope. It's wide but pretty flat, a high bank of snow at the edges like a buffer between the trees, no obstacles or anything in sight besides the other skiers. If it wasn't for the awkward weight and pressure of the skis attached to his feet, it would be the least intimidating view in the world.

“Hnn,” he hums, and nods.

Alarmingly, as he gets into position aiming down the hill Furiosa swings around so she's standing in front of him backwards, facing him and not the slope ahead, skis splayed out into a wide open “V”.

“Point your skis and shoulders downhill,” she says as if she isn't in imminent danger of him sliding into her, “Just focus on your balance, and don't worry about running into anyone, especially not me.”

She extends one of the ski poles again and Max takes the unspoken command to grab it, the tug she gives enough to start his skis sliding across the snow. It's an incredibly strange feeling, something like rollerskating if his skates had been extended a meter ahead of him, and he feels like an idiot as he's tugged along by a ski pole- except, he realizes after a moment, she's not really pulling him anymore. He's moving on his own.

It's painfully slow and he wobbles rather alarmingly as he slides over the uneven snow, but he just tries to keep upright and stop the ends of his skis from crossing or running into one another, wanting to avoid falling if he can help it.

“Doing good,” Furiosa says encouragingly, and he glances up at her and is relieved that she doesn't seem as if she's making fun. Of course she wouldn't, since she's paid to teach and all, but it still seemed a possibility.

They do indeed slide to a stop not long after, and when he looks around Max sees a line of people going up the hill, instead of down. Somehow.

“Congrats, you survived the first run,” she says.

“Mhm, not hopeless?” he finds himself asking, and Furiosa shakes her head with a smile.

“I could teach hopeless,” she says confidently, “But no. You might just earn your poles back, who knows.”

They ride the kiddie lift back up to the top of the slope- it's like a giant treadmill, or a flat escalator, something she calls the “magic carpet”- while Furiosa explains the basics of how to position his skis.

“For the kids we use 'pizza' and 'chips' to help them with the shapes, but I think you can handle the grown-up names,” she says, just a little teasingly, and Max huffs in amusement.

“Getting your skis into a wedge is how you're going to ski most of the time at first,” Furiosa says, demonstrating once they're off the lift. With legs held far apart the lines of her skis angle into one another, the reverse of her earlier “V” and it mostly seems as if it'll mean running over one another exactly as she warned him not to. “It's slow and stable, even if you're turning.”

Max tries to copy her and can already feel how it'll mean using a lot more of his muscles than his last sliding run had.

“If you're going too fast widen the wedge, and if that fails, turn to point yourself practically uphill. Not actually uphill, or you'll just end up going backwards and falling, but the turn will kill your momentum.”

He has no idea how to turn yet beyond what his intuition is suggesting so it's not really practical advice, but he nods anyway. It does rather make sense that to stop going _down_ you'd want to point yourself _up_ , though.

“Parallel-” she brings her feet in close together, skis pointed straight ahead and parallel to one another- “is faster, and for a beginner less stable. It's how skis are really meant to be used, though, so depending on how things go we'll work on it a bit.”

Max nods, already hoping to press forward towards it; what little experience he has with seeing people ski has always shown them with skis straight and close together, rather than awkwardly pigeon-toed in front of themselves.

“Ready for your second run?” Furiosa asks.

He looks down at the slope, wonders if he's going to be stuck sliding down this measly hill all day. “Are we, hmm,” he says, “staying here?”

She smirks at him. “If you can do a turn without falling then yeah, we can move off the bunny slope.”

He still doesn't know how to turn at all so he scowls, but it only deepens the amusement he sees in her expression.

Max shuffles so he's aimed downhill, skis stretched out into a wedge as instructed. He's not so much gliding as he had the first time but skidding, pulled down across the snow by his own weight, and he realizes rather quickly that he can't stare at both the tips of his threatening-to-cross-one-another skis and look ahead to make sure he doesn't run into any of the sprogs zooming around.

“Good,” Furiosa says from besides him, and he jerks in surprise- his skis cross, maybe, but next thing he knows he's sprawled out in the snow, awkwardly lying on his back with one ski still flat on the ground and the other detached from his boot entirely, somehow.

It doesn't hurt at all because the snow is soft but it's terrible, and there's snow clinging damp and cold to his jeans and trickling down into the cuff of his boot, and Max regrets so many things. Furiosa glides to a stop besides him easily, staring down at him in amusement.

“Don't stare at your tips,” is her sage advice.

It ends up taking him half an hour of humiliating runs full of falling, and nearly falling, before Max finally skis down the entirely of the little slope successfully. At least one of the falls wasn't his fault- a kid had crashed not two meters ahead and he'd tried to swerve out of the way, an act that met with little success.

“I think we can take you on a real trail now,” Furiosa says once he's made it to the bottom of the hill successfully for the second time in a row, a neat set of turns under his belt.

Max grunts, mildly annoyed that no one had been exaggerating when they'd said he would _need_ lessons. It seemed easy enough to watch, but wasn't that always the way? At least on the other trail he won't have to be the only adult who isn't a parent or instructor.

They take the magic carpet lift back to the top of the slope, and then shuffle over to the head of the next trail, one not connected to the kiddie area. It's marked with a green circle and the name “Wallaby Way”, a second sign with a blue square pointing off to a different trail on the left.

Max hadn't expected to be going on the black diamond runs- he knows they're for experts which he most demonstrably is not- but he realizes with dismay that there's probably no way he's going to be taking on anything but the easiest runs, potentially ever since he's likely never setting foot on a ski slope again after this.

“It's the exact same thing, just longer and a little steeper in places,” Furiosa says as they stare down the trail. “You're lucky- we got some good snow yesterday and there haven't been too many people out yet today, so the runs are still fresh.”

Max has no idea what difference it makes, only that he assumes more snow is better. He glances back at her, unaccountably nervous, and then starts his awkward wedge-sliding down the trail. It starts out nearly as flat and he's alright, but a few meters past where the first slope ended it picks up to a more aggressive angle and he's suddenly going much faster than he had before.

“Easy,” Furiosa calls, a little behind him to keep an eye on things, and Max tries to widen his wedge to slow down only to once again find himself falling, this time pitched forward onto his face so he ends up with a mouthful of grainy snow.

So it takes a while to get down to the base.

Once there Max realizes that there's the real chairlift to deal with again, and he suppresses a groan of something not unlike despair. Falling so often has made him cold and sore and damp all over, his jeans soaked and heavy and freezing, the muscles in his thighs burning.

It's a very strange feeling to be at once freezing cold but also so overheated he's contemplating opening his jacket to cool off. There's snow jammed down the tops of his boots melting into his socks and his eyes really haven't adjusted to the glare of the snow, on top of which he wasn't expecting the wind to whip into his eyes so much during the longer run so they're watering enough that he feels entirely too blind to be moving as fast as skiing seems to require. Even his lips are starting to get chapped.

The clock at the base of the chairlift says it's only just past eleven- it's been a little over an hour, with practically an entire second one to go before the lesson finishes. He's not entirely sure he can handle it; he's never though of himself as out-of-shape before but he's using his muscles in entirely unaccustomed ways, on top of the effort doing something new always takes.

“You got some decent turns in there,” Furiosa says encouragingly as they shuffle through the “Ski School Only” line.

Max grunts in answer, not looking to be humored.

“I think you can handle getting on the chair at normal speed,” she says as they approach the gate. “We'll still slow it at the top, though.”

Despite how he doesn't want to be babied he's mildly alarmed by the prospect, eyeing the moving chairs apprehensively. But it wasn't as if the lift moves incredibly fast, he reasons, and it was just knowing when to sit down, right?

He shuffles up to the red 'wait' line, staring back over his shoulder anxiously at the approaching chair. This time it doesn't so much tap the backs of his legs as slam into them, only the fact that he was prepared to sit down saving him from pitching forward and being run over by the thing.

And then they're stuck on the lift as it lurches and sways up the mountain, the weight of his skis pulling down his legs just as strange and unfamiliar as it was to start.

“Do you want to know _why_ I took away your poles?” Furiosa asks as they sit on the swinging chair, slowly making their way back up to the top of the trail just so they can slide right back down.

“Bad habits,” Max says, because that was what she had said. She wasn't even holding onto his set anymore- they were stabbed into the snow back by the carpet lift, theoretically being watched over by the attendant. He'd have to go down and fetch them once the lesson was over, braving the swarm of children. At least it'd be pretty easy to convince the guy he wasn't stealing- how many other adult learners could there be?

“Mhm,” she replies. “Poles are there to help you set up your turns. When you're going really fast, or the terrain is rough, it's invaluable. But most people get lazy and use them for balance, or for nothing at all- they just hold them because that's part of the equipment kit.”

He nods, not really understanding since he's been moving over flat slopes at approximately a snail's pace, and turning didn't seem particularly difficult from that perspective.

“You um, said something about... edges?” Max asks, because she'd brought it up with turning and he really doesn't know what she means by it. Weren't you supposed to use the bottom of the ski to move?

So Furiosa moves from the use of ski poles to explaining about proper-but-advanced turning technique like engaging the edges of your ski to grip into the snow, and Max can pay attention to that instead of looking down at the way-too-far-away ground and thinking about how high up he was.

Getting off the lift goes marginally better than it had the first time- he doesn't fall, even if he feels for a moment like he might, and neither does he slam into any of the people standing around the unloading area. Why they have to stand _right_ off the track he doesn't understand, it only means they're at risk of getting run over by people like him.

They spend the second hour of the lesson working on turns, and balance, and, once Max realizes how much less strain on his knees putting his skis parallel is, going very, very fast. Well, it certainly feels fast to him, anyway, compared with his earlier pace.

Falling at a higher speed is far more harrowing- his skis tend to pop off his boots when he falls, and he's not sure if they're _meant_ to do that or _why_ \- but the snow is fairly soft, not unlike falling into the dusty sand he grew up with, but with less rocks (and, he can only assume, less hidden critters eager to bite and/or sting him). And even though it makes his eyes water fiercely as the wind rips across them, going fast and somewhat confidently down the trails is the closest to fun he's had since arriving at the mountain.

“We've got time for one last run,” Furiosa says on the ride back up the mountain, and Max can't help the disappointed sound that leaves him. Obviously he's free to keep mucking about on his own, but he likes having her there, both as an instructor and just because she's fairly pleasant company. Whether she hears or not over the wind he can't say; she continues as if she hasn't, anyway. “I think you can handle a blue run, if you're up for it.”

They'd ridden all three of the green-circle trails off this lift at least once each already, and he'd even managed to keep to his feet entirely the last two runs, despite how he'd hit a ridge of snow and nearly been thrown to the ground. The thought of taking a risk on a more advanced trail is appealing, because going down green runs swarming mostly with kids makes him feel silly, but at the same time he's apprehensive about how much harder it might be.

Except, he reasons, it's not like he'd _want_ to stay on the green trails, and this way he'd have help and advice and someone who wouldn't laugh if (when) he falls.

“Yeah,” he says, “Let's.”

The blue trail isn't much different to start, and Furiosa keeps steady pace just behind him, the sound of their skis swishing across the snow loud in his ears. It's a strangely hypnotic noise- he'd seen a handful of teenagers with headphones on and (besides worrying about how safe that could possibly be) he wonders why you would bother, when just the natural sound of it was so pleasant.

There's a sharp turn, and then the trail seems to just- drop away. Max screeches to a halt, skis wedged so hard they were practically crossed, and stares down at the incredibly steep looking slope ahead of him. He'd managed to stop just before the precipice, luckily, and wonders if he can possibly back further away.

“It's not as bad as it seems at first,” Furiosa says reassuringly from besides him.

“Um,” Max says. This was an intermediate run? It's practically vertical! He takes a moment to picture how much worse a black-diamond trail might be, and promptly wishes he hadn't.

“There are three ways to get down,” Furiosa says after a moment of him not moving. “One: take off your skis, do the walk of shame. I don't recommend it, unless you're actually in pain or having a panic attack.”

His legs are kind of sore, but not really enough to justify walking, probably, and despite the mild alarm he feels Max thinks he's far from panicked.

“Two: see that kid?” She points her pole down to where a sprog is slowly scraping their way down the hill, skis wedged together, turning every meter or so and going practically horizontal. “It takes a lot of energy, it hurts, it's bad form- but it'll get you down.”

“Or three,” Furiosa says, and her pole is pointing at one of the graceful expert skiers, barely looking like they're touching the ground as they weave their way speedily down the hill. “You fang it. Your skis are made to go downhill, you've practiced enough to have good balance and posture, and the worst that happens is you take a bit of a tumble.”

Max eyes the kid again, still working their way down to a waiting adult. He can already feel how much his legs will hate him if he tries that, how he'll probably be unable to walk at all for a day or two as his knee screams bloody murder at him. The few people passing around them were various shades of expert, some weaving like they were born to it and others more cautious, but so far none he can see have fallen.

“Okay,” he says with a determined nod. She'd said she thought he could handle this run, that he was ready. And this was surely not the steepest slope on the mountain, but it would be a great way to finish off the lesson, if he could go from being unable to shuffle into the line to sailing down a trail like this.

Furiosa flashes him a smile, not even asking which option he was going with, and Max takes a deep breath to prepare himself.

Slipping off the precipice is scary, and he's going far faster than he ever had before, but he keeps his shoulders facing down the slope and leans into the turns and somehow, miraculously, he doesn't fall.

Well, Max doesn't fall on the steep part of the slope, anyway- it bottoms out and all at once what had been smooth packed snow becomes chopped up and bumpy from so many people stopping abruptly, and his momentum has him hitting a particularly bad clump with enough force to see him pitching face-first into the snow, skidding and rolling ass-over-teakettle until he finally, mercifully, stops.

There's not much air in his lungs, stolen by the impact, and he can feel the shoes in his backpack digging into him through his jacket from where he's somehow ended up on his back. Both of his skis are detached from his boots, missing along with his hat, and he's suddenly glad he wasn't carrying poles, sure they'd have stabbed him as he rolled.

He blinks up at the bright blue sky above for a moment, feeling for injuries and finding none, wondering if the fall was worth it.

A swish of snow sprays over him, and then Furiosa's face leans into his view, a grin on her face. “Not bad,” she says, tosses his hat down onto his chest, “A little rough on the landing, maybe...”

Max shakes his head at the joke but there's an answering smile stealing across his face anyway because for a moment he had been _flying_ , like he's only before experienced from behind a wheel.

“Got your ski!” a stranger calls out, and Max hefts himself up off his back to see a snowboarder slowly slide over, single ski in hand. “Nice tag sale, dude.”

Max makes a curious noise at the phrase but the boarder hasn't heard him, only passes the ski to Furiosa without stopping before swerving back off and away. He glances around and sees the other only a little distance away, rolls himself upright and tromps over to retrieve it himself.

“Hey,” Furiosa says once he's clicked back into his skis and they're ready to start off again, “You're okay, right? That was your most impressive fall yet.”

Max hums in reply- he's tired and damp and is going to be incredibly sore tomorrow, but it's nothing serious. Even his knee still feels fine, wrapped in the fiberglass and padding of his brace as it is.

The remainder of the trail is much less exciting, but he feels a bit like he's settled into the rhythm of it, like now he's conquered the scary part he can handle the rest without problem. Maybe he will come back, he thinks, not often but... The mountain was only a short drive from his new flat, really, and he could probably manage to scrounge up enough money for another ticket or two before the season ends.

The clock at the base reads noon, now, the end of their lesson. It's also probably about time to get something to eat- Max hadn't anticipated how hard he would be working, how hungry it would make him. There's enough snow that it's possible to ski right up to the doors of the lodge, the racks clustered with skis. Max instead pulls to a stop not far from where the lift line starts, Furiosa gliding to a stop a little ways away, sliding her goggles back up off her face.

“You made a lot of progress today,” she tells him, “If you decide to keep skiing, I think you could be chewing up the mountain in no time.” It's an optimistic statement, but it doesn't sound as if she's teasing him with a complete lie, either.

“I- thank you,” he says, “You're a good teacher.”

She shrugs, not in a modest dismissal but lazy acknowledgment, and it ticks the corner of his mouth up into a smile because of course she wasn't modest.

“You're welcome back as a student whenever,” Furiosa replies.

Max ducks his face away before looking back up, giving into impulse. “Got time for lunch?” he asks, jerking his head towards the bustling lodge.

She raises an eyebrow at him and he thinks about backing down, but he really would like to spend more time with her, whether as a potential friend or a potential something more. He wouldn't mind being just friends with her- fuck knows he's short on those at the moment- but he also wouldn't say no to seeing if there was anything else there, if she wanted to as well.

Finally, she nods. “Alright,” Furiosa says, “My break's now anyway.”

It seems like tempting fate (and the sticky fingers of thieves) to just leave their skis leaning up against a rack with everyone else's, surrounded by what must be hundreds of people, any of whom might just pick them up and leave. One or two pairs have what looks like a sort of lock around them, looped around the wood of the racks, but most were completely unsecured.

Furiosa doesn't have a lock, just does the same sliding-together-trick the kid at the rental place had and tucks them into one of the waiting slots, the straps of her poles dangling off their curved tips. Max thinks about how much the rental place would potentially charge if his skis went missing and wonders if he can carry them inside, even though no one else seems to be doing so.

“They ever get stolen?” he asks, looking around distrustfully. He couldn't see anyone sneaking around, or carrying off bundles of skis, but he certainly wouldn't be able to tell if someone grabbed a set that didn't belong to them.

“Oh, sometimes,” Furiosa says in casual dismissal. “Not often though. I wouldn't worry about your rentals, that's for sure.”

Well, that at least makes sense when he actually thinks about it- even discounting the logo stickers plastered onto them surely rentals weren't as nice as skis owned by one person, wouldn't be worth selling or keeping to use. He know absolutely nothing about skis, but he's dealt with plenty of thieves- the risk was the same, so you might as well grab as high-end as you could.

It feels a little weird to no longer have the skis on his feet after two hours of it, clunking heel-toe in his boots as he lets Furiosa lead the way through the still-incredibly-confusing lodge.

“Did you pack a lunch?” she asks, not looking over her shoulder at him as she's busy shucking her jacket. Her hair underneath the helmet she'd been wearing is buzzed incredibly short, not what he'd been expecting at all, and he's curious to see what it does to her face once he looks her straight-on again.

“Nn,” Max replies, pulling his soggy hat off his own head, stowing it away with his gloves. It wasn't incredibly warm in the lodge, but the difference from being outside in the biting cold was already apparent. His poor soaked jeans are going to be uncomfortable no matter what he does, he thinks with despair.

“Bad move,” she says with a shake of her head. “Prices here are a complete scam.” She pushes open a set of swinging double-doors to reveal a crowded cafeteria, stuffed full of people in various states of winter dress sitting at long tables, bags and gear crowded around every surface, hanging from hooks on the walls, stuffed under the tables.

Apparently no one had been kidding when they said most people just left their stuff in the lodge.

Max looks at the advertised prices on the menu above the cafeteria lines and flinches. It was exorbitantly expensive, especially for the caliber of food he could see on people's trays. How anyone managed to get into this sport without being rich, he has no idea. Despite how surprisingly enjoyable the day had been so far, he might never make it back, considering- and he already makes a decent salary.

“Hold this, would you?” Furiosa asks, turning around to hold out her jacket. Max takes it reflexively, watches with surprise as with a deft twist she detaches the lower part of her left arm to reveal nothing but a stump. “Fucking thing gets so cold,” she grumbles, tucking what he realizes is not a glove at all but a shiny silver-and-black prosthetic hand under her arm.

She is... really not what Max had expected now that she's not covered under her snow gear, but he takes in the image she presents and thinks he might like the reality better than what his mind had idly come up with. The short hair suits her, and he wasn't about to discriminate about missing limbs when he's dragging around a knee that was all-but-useless on bad days. And certainly it makes her someone he wasn't likely to forget, that's for sure. Furiosa looks at him challengingly, like she's waiting for him to make a remark on her appearance, but he only hums in commiseration with her last comment.

“Table?” he asks, since they all seem to be full, or else sprawled over with gear and teenagers in a way that implies they'd very much like their space to remain uninvaded.

“We'll eat in the staff room,” she replies, taking her jacket back from him and tucking it into the crook of her arm along with her prosthesis and dangling helmet straps, “It's where my lunch is stashed, anyway.”

“No employee discount?” Max asks, grabbing a tray and looking at the sorry offerings in resignation.

“Ten percent,” Furiosa says with audible disdain, and that's so pathetically low that he makes a sympathetic noise. “Homecooked's way better than this slop, anyway,” she adds, loud enough to cause the woman working behind the glowing red warming tray to give an indignant “Hey!” in protest.

“We all know it,” Furiosa tells her in reply. “Any chance you've burned some chips lately?”

“Not with talk like that,” the woman says, which doesn't make much sense to Max until she passes over a carton of perfectly acceptable-looking chips for her to take. Furiosa smiles and thanks her, then sashays out past the checkout counter with no more than a quick word to the person working the register.

“And you?” the worker says, jerking Max's attention back to her. The options really are dismal considering the prices, and he grabs a sad-looking but already made burger off the warming tray and moves away to the drinks station. Just that and a small cup of coffee was nearly fifteen dollars, he learns as he goes through the checkout line to rejoin Furiosa, waiting for him beyond the register.

“Here,” she says, plunking the chips down on his tray. “Carry them for me and I'll share.”

Considering she has only the one hand and gear to carry, Max wouldn't have protested carrying the carton anyway. Balancing food while keeping up the awkward clunking gait the boots demand is difficult, to say nothing of all the gear spilling out into the aisles that he has to try and avoid tripping over. He's grateful when Furiosa finally brings them to a nondescript door that opens to reveal a much less hectic space, though there's still more than a few people clustered around the tables.

“Furi!” one of them calls out, a girl maybe in her twenties with short cropped hair sitting with a group of similarly-young women. Her expression immediately closes off when she catches sight of Max behind Furiosa in the doorway, tray in hand. “And a stranger,” she adds with much less enthusiasm.

“Hello,” one of the others says to him politely, scrutinizing him with intense, open curiosity. When Max had thought about eating lunch with Furiosa, he really hadn't pictured an audience, and shifts nervously in place.

He darts a look at Furiosa but she seems unconcerned, already making her way to an unoccupied table against the back wall. Max awkwardly nods hello to the curious girls, then follows her, gladly sinking into the seat.

“Don't forget to loosen your boots,” Furiosa says, dumping her things- prosthetic hand included, and that's a bit eerie to see just lying there- onto the tabletop before moving for the fridge humming away in the corner. The chatter in the room picks back up after a moment, and while no one seems to be actively looking his way Max has the feeling of being watched nonetheless.

He hunches down and unbuckles the ski boots, surprised by how much of a relief it is. It hadn't hurt, wearing them for a couple of hours, but the pressure had been pretty intense, something he only now notices with them loosened. By the time he straightens back up to take off his backpack and undo his jacket properly Furiosa's returned with a battered metal lunchbox of her own.

Max sips his coffee, wondering if maybe this was a mistake, grimaces when he realizes that even the coffee is terrible considering the price he paid, watery and burnt at the same time.

“We didn't go through the usual lift chit-chat topics,” Furiosa says, stabbing down into whatever it is she has inside her lunchbox, “So: where are you from?”

He asked for this, Max reminds himself as he unpicks the sad wax paper away from his ridiculously overpriced burger; most people expect to talk when sharing a meal for the first time.

“Out west,” he answers, "Near Perth." If you stretched the definition of 'near' anyway, but his hometown wasn't the sort people recognized. When he bites into it the burger is every bit as mediocre as Max thought it would be, but any food is more than welcome at the moment and he starts bolting it down.

"That's a ways away," Furiosa says, and whatever she's eating is pleasantly fragrant and definitely better looking than the cafeteria offerings; he tries to not be jealous. "What brings you out here?"

"Job transfer," he says, and before she asks him to clarify Max poses a question of his own- it was always better to get people talking about themselves, and he's learned nothing much about her so far but her name, so he's honestly curious. “How long've you been teaching?”

“Officially?” she replies, “I've been an instructor here seven years. Unofficially... Well, these brats had to learn from someone.”

She glances towards the young women at the other table (who were not being particularly stealthy at all about their interest in listening in on the conversation) when she says 'these brats' and he's not sure if Furiosa means them specifically, or just kids like them. Probably a deeper mystery than a first meeting conversation warrants, even if such an obvious tell was practically an invitation to ask more.

“Not year-round,” he says, because Max is pretty sure even this place must get plenty hot come December.

Furiosa shakes her head with a bit of a smile. “No, no,” she says, “It's definitely seasonal. During the summer I help with the machines, and the mountain's open for bikers who need tour guides.”

“A local, then?” Max asks, tries to picture the mountainside he'd skidded down not being covered by snow.

“Mhm, born and bred not thirty klicks east,” she replies easily. “I grew up skiing- my family used to own land on the side of a mountain, we modified an old tractor engine to run a tow-rope up and we'd ski back down.”

That's certainly something he hadn't thought about, skiing not at a manicured resort like this but just plunging off the side of a mountain. Might be fun making your own trails, he thinks, but there'd probably be a lot more trees to dodge.

He hums in reply, grabs a chip from the carton because she'd said he could have some and she hasn't reached for them at all yet.

“So whereabouts did you transfer to?” she asks after a few moments of silent eating, and Max struggles to finish chewing in order to answer.

Before he gets the chance the door slams open, an older man with long white hair flanked by a veritable giant walking through. The room instantly goes completely silent, even Furiosa stiffening in place, though she maintains her casual posture. Max goes alert at once, eyeing the man warily; he was likely a higher-up, for his presence to spark this level of change, but there's something about the atmosphere that's striking him as being beyond the normal workplace deference. The women in particular seem guarded, Furiosa on-edge.

The man ruffles his hand over the bald head of one of the boys at their table as he walks through, then bends down to whisper something in the ear of one of the girls. Max has no idea what he'd said, but she looks uncomfortable enough that he would bet it wasn't anything about her job.

He smiles at Furiosa and then raises an eyebrow at the sight of Max, sauntering over. “And _who_ is _this_?” he asks, smiling in an imitation of being charming that didn't touch his eyes at all, “Furiosa, you know guests aren't allowed in staff areas.”

“He's here about the Ski Patrol opening,” she replies coolly. “Just got finished putting him through his paces on the slopes.”

Max doesn't blame her for lying- and if he had known it was against the rules, he never would have let her bring him in here, smaller crowd to deal with or no. He really hopes the man doesn't question _him_ any further about it though, because Max doesn't even know what 'Ski Patrol' is.

“Shouldn't Dr. Mechan be interviewing him then?” the man asks, grinning like he's caught her out somehow.

“He's out today,” Furiosa says, “I don't think it's going to work out, anyway.”

The man narrows his eyes, opening his mouth to say something- he's interrupted by a high-pitched shriek, one of the girls at the table jumping up and away from her seat, up and away from the giant that Max had neglected to pay attention to.

“Rictus!” the man shouts, and the giant whips his head around, a startled guilty look on his face.

“I didn't do anything!” he says immediately, defensive and whiny, but shuffles so far away from the table that he bumps into the wall behind him.

The man nods tersely at Furiosa before striding back towards the door, gesturing for the giant to fall into step behind him. The door swings shut behind them, but the atmosphere remains off-kilter.

The girl who'd shrieked settles back into her chair, one of the others sliding an arm around her shoulders for a hug and looking like she was whispering to her. At the other table the boy who'd gotten his head patted was grinning smugly, but one of the others (and really, was every kid in this place bald?) was looking at him with something closer to disdain.

Max turns back to Furiosa, wondering if he can pick up any cues from her. Any one aspect of the strange scene seemed a bit more than just the usual workplace tensions, and he hadn't seen what the giant had done to make the girl shriek, but from the way the older man had spoken to the other one, he definitely has a bad feeling about it.

“Sorry,” Furiosa says, hand clenched around her fork like she might use it as a weapon, jaw set. “You should head out.”

He weighs his options: bow out of the situation entirely like she was suggesting- not really something he wants to do, when his instincts are telling him 'danger'- remove himself but keep watch from afar- better, but not ideal- or mentally slip his badge back into place and start snooping.

“Your boss?” Max asks, wiping his hands off with a napkin but doing nothing else to pack up.

Furiosa nods, “Joe and his sons own the entire mountain.” She's looking at him with annoyance and some suspicion, like she's not sure why he hasn't left yet after witnessing that little altercation but really wants him to.

Max hums, unsurprised by the information. “Happen often?”

“I don't see how that's any of your concern,” Furiosa says, glancing quickly at the huddle of girls like she wants Max to leave so she can walk over and talk to them.

“If there's trouble,” Max says quietly enough so the other tables won't hear, pauses to decide what, exactly, he was going to offer. He can picture one of them going to the local force and getting shut down soon as they walked in the door, officers who'd probably grown up here attached to the status quo and maybe, if this Joe was rich enough to own an entire ski resort, were getting bribed besides. He suddenly wonders if every new recruit is given passes to the mountain, if it wasn't done out of departmental generosity but as the first step to bring them into the fold. “I can help.”

She narrows her eyes at him, arms crossing defensively across her front. “Is that so,” she says flatly.

Max twitches out a nod, reaches for the backpack he'd discarded in the chair next to him. There was some slight risk to carrying his department ID in a wallet off-duty, but he likes having it around, just in case. He fishes it out and flips the wallet open, holds it up so the information is readable.

Furiosa's expression shifts from suspicion to contemplation as she looks it over. “Well,” she says after a moment, “Isn't that interesting.”

He glances around the open little room, the way there's really no way to have anything like a private conversation, and wonders if there's an office or something they can use.

"You left your poles by the carpet lift," Furiosa says, a complete non-sequitur that has him blinking. "Finish cleaning that up-" she gestures at the tray of abandoned food- "and meet me by the Pipeline in ten, fifteen minutes. I've got to get back anyway, and Morsov might not remember you by yourself."

Ah. Max nods in understanding and slips the ID and wallet back into his pack, regrets that there's no way he can take notes if they're going to talk while actually on the chairlift. Of course, not being able to take notes _now_ means he'll have to come back for a statement another time, and he probably shouldn't feel a fission of eager anticipation at the notion of having an official reason to talk to her again but there it is anyway.

The guys back at the station probably won't appreciate him turning eyes to this situation, he thinks, but his instincts are saying that there's enough going on here that he's not willing to just let it go. Max clunks his way out of the staff room with one last glance back to Furiosa, mind already spinning with ways to keep the (still only potential) investigation from getting swept under a rug or interfered with. She's already moved over to stand at the table of girls but nods when he catches her eye, dismissal and reassurance in one.

Definitely not how he'd thought a day of skiing would go, but he thinks he can work with it.

 


End file.
